Sound; Dion on the brain. Litle Miss Back Fat has had me listening to the soft rock/easy listening station all morning.
Sight; My blazing head of hair.
Taste; Narcolepsy special for lunch, meatloaf mashed potatos and green beans. I wonder why my ass hasn't exploded right our of my jeans by the way I eat.
Touch; I love the way freshly dyed hair feels.
Smell; Patch Oil.
"Sarah, your hair looks different, did you dye it?
"No, I read about a tribe of African women who can adjust the hue of their hair by soaking it in their menstrual blood and decided to check it out. Here, smell!"
If I have to answer that question one more time today I'm going to start drooling midsentence until I make the person speaking excruciatingly uncomfortable and they just walk away. At least I'm getting creative with my answers. "Why, yes, I did change my hair color. I scrubbed it with the tongue of a yak during the new moon in Bali."
I love it. There's no wishy washy, whiny do I or don't I about it. I've caused people stare at me today. Normally I don't enjoy that, I'm thinking they're looking for all the wrong reasons, but today I felt purty. So they were free to stare until they had their fill.
If you were asked that same question over and over, what would your most imaginative answer be?
Visiting my Big Daddy yesterday evening, I glanced up at the hutch at noticed a nice ceramic plate painted with a sun and moon design, and also Connor's full name and birthdate. I recognized my mother's handiwork right away, she has a very distinctive brush stroke. She's also a brilliant artist, by the by. I laughed and asked where he got it. Big Daddy looked at me with what passes as a smirk for him, and said that my brother had made it and sent it to Connor. I snickered and went to read the back. She had even signed my brother's name in the handwriting that is even more distinctive than her brushstroke. Needless to say, my father didn't want to throw it away, but he damned sure didn't want it in his house, so I took it home with me.
I was very upset with my mother and my brother after I got home. It never helps anything to get upset in front of my father, I'd just rather not do so unless necessary. My mother, having allowed my older brother to move halfway across the country into her house, has allowed him to revert back to his old ways. And not even old, just "his ways." He doesn't care about us, we know that. But to make that plate and sign his name seemed like such an insult. Connor is his brother too. If he wanted Connor to have something made by him, why didn't he make it himself instead of having my mother do it? I hold her more responsible that him. She's the one that picked up the brush.
She refuses to accept that she, in no form, is welcome in the house. I try to tell her these things, and she says "He's just going to have to get over it." Get over it? I think he's done pretty damned well, considering she walked out in the middle of the night and never came back after 25 years of marriage. The audacity that is my mother. She just wants everyone to move on and forget she ever left the way she did. That she left me alone to clean up her mess. Is it any wonder I don't want to call her too often? Is it any wonder that the smallest gesture, such as the plate, is a slap in the face? If she had ever apologized, it would be a different situation entirely. She's the one that got to go have a brand new life. I'm not jealous of that, honestly, I'm not. I've made my choices and am surrounded by love on all sides. I just want to open her eyes for her. I want to show her exactly where those lines are drawn in the sand. Though I have, she just seems to step over them again and again. This is the reason Adam and I didn't have a big wedding. What's it going to be like when we have a family? There but for the grace of the gods go I...
